Queen of the Accursed
by Kaihawk
Summary: A very short story about Azkaban. Four certain prisoners are brought in, and the viewpoint is from the most fascinating of them, though she is not the narrator. Rated PG-13 for dark settings and a single curseword.


Queen of the Accursed

By Kaihawk

Disclaimer: J.K. owns all. Well, almost. The title was taken from a movie that I have never seen, and the idea was inspired by _Butterfly_, by Nemesis.

A/N: A very short story about Azkaban. Read if you dare. If you can't identify who I'm talking about if you do read this, then I know I've got a lot to work on. Oh, and this was supposed to be called _Queen of the Damned_, but I feared that the story might be thrown out because there's a swearword in the title. 

The island was, as it had been reputed by all, a very dreary place. Very dreary indeed. There was no sign of a sun's smile. The only light that was protruding at all was the lantern held by the guard, standing in the front of the boat. The small, begrimed, dingy dinghies were floating softly, soundlessly, its only trace being the slight ripples in the sea that were immediately thrashed and broken by the waves of the water.

The day's sky (or was it day? It was difficult to tell), however, was a different matter. For it was not merely gray, as if it were about to rain. Nor was it gray simply because the whole horizon was filled with swirling clouds. If one squinted closely, there was a trace of azure, but in a flash of fog it would be replaced by darkening haze. 

The mist was distinctly both black and white. The black stood out quite clearly, hovering like a menacing iron curtain above the towers of the prison. There was something about the blackness though. Perhaps it was that it seemed to be changing tones every few seconds, and yet maintaining its unfailing shadow. Or maybe it was that the tentacles of the black bleakness lengthened long enough to taint the little whiteness of the air. Or perchance it was that when one whiffed the odor of the atmosphere, it would make their eyes water, as if they had taken a sharp intake of smoke that only stultified the senses instead of taking them over completely, like it should. 

Of course, to the innocent bystander, the day would be downcast in any case. The guards were enough to assure that. Those tall, gliding, silent creatures with no faces perceivable within the black hoods. Their putrid stench was not particularly manifest, not with all the redolent smoke that was whirling around, anyway. And every so often, an odd, eerie clatter could be heard from the front. The setting painted every sensation that one could feel, leaving nothing to spare.

The menacing physique and characteristics of the guards were not even their most potent powers. Immediately when one entered the nearby ambience, a cold feeling overcame all observers. The room would suddenly dim dramatically, as if the drapes were opening up for a show, and in the spotlight would glow only the guard. Every heart was petrified with a gloom that sadness could only describe with a glance. For every mind, even those of great mental capacity, was then transformed into a gallimaufry of insanity, of thoughts that the owner would not have dared divulge to anyone. A victim's soul was so clamped down by a brooding dementia that to a long-suffering person, the lowering of the hood was almost like euthanasia; a permanent relief from the otherwise eternal perdition…

The drab feeling only grew as they approached the islet, barren but of a shabby, rat-infested edifice that people called an appropriate jail for criminals. To anyone who had ever seen it, the wretched place looked more like a dungeon that had been elevated over the surface, above the musty soil. There were small windows with steel bars heavily covering the opening. No one was even bothering to watch the newcomers; it seemed they were too busy with making the occasional scream in their ever haunted dreams.

And yet, even as they approached the frontage of the shady shores, one of the prisoners was unaffected by all of the corrupted breezes that stained these already foul convicts. Even as they marched slowly up the cliffs towards the metal doors, even as passing guards looked upon them with hungry, ravenous expressions, she held her face high, kept her strides refined, as if she was walking towards her coronation. 

Her thick, dark hair was still shining with the glow that accompanied her ere she had been brought to the prison, though now it was noticeably starting to fade and the beginnings of a dull lankness was forming about her head. Her face was marked foremost by her eyes; so heavily hooded, so deep and yet oddly attractive. Ostensibly her features was still untouched by the black smog, for it still reserved a beautiful façade. She stood tall and proud, with a rather haughty look upon her. If one scrutinized her closely, however, there were traces of a slowly spreading gauntness, even though she had yet to be introduced to her cell.

She would not admit to herself that the power of the guards was indeed affecting her, the frost stroking her once exotic skin. The woman kept monotonous thoughts in her mind in order to weather the cold; memories of her sheltered, privileged childhood; memories of her brilliance in school; memories of meeting the thin, spindly, powerful sorcerer who would forever change her life. For the better, she thought.

As she stepped upon them like a royal, the steps emitted layers of dust. They were now dark, half-hidden in shadow and blemished by spots of sick-green moss. If the light of the flickering candle lingered long enough, the optimist could see brownish-auburn in the aged, sinister stairs, almost as if they were once intended to be a decor of a palace. But that sanguine person was dreaming, of course. Imagining that true life once sprung among those stairs was absurd. A foolish notion.

They were now walking among the chambers, where the inmates dwelled. The woman tried to keep her eyes forward, as if nothing was worthy of her attention, but curiosity got the better of her. She chanced a fleeting look at her sides every few moments, but she could see nothing, not even with the lantern's light so prominent in the dark. Nothing was moving, unless one counted the rats that scurried around the floor. 

And yet, perhaps there was life stirring in the shadows, however feeble and stale it may be. The woman could have sworn to Merlin that she heard whispers, mad murmurs that were clearly part of their troubled slumbers. Every now and then her ears could sense one of them muttering soliloquies, as if trying to preoccupy themselves and distract the powers of the guards. Futile.

The guard held up a thin, rotting hand, and the group halted. The youngest captive was now whimpering, his body drooping. Apparently he already knew he would be the first to start his quarters, for there was no change in his sniveling behavior when a guard pushed him forward brusquely. The iron door opened automatically, and inside was his room. The man hesitated at first. He simply stared at it; at the naked bed; at the square hole in the wall; at the bloodstained floor that the was dirty with filth. This was his home now, and another prod from the guard drove the young man stumbling into it. His blue eyes were now full of shock, and as the door shut, he threw himself at it, screaming pleas of innocence, of mercy. Lies.

They now reached the second chamber. It was only a couple doors from the first, across the corridor. A thin, nervous man now came forth, his skin now fast reducing to his bones. The look he wore was too plain; it appeared he was not registering any reaction at all. The woman wondered in amusement how she could have ever married such a coward. Such a weak man, so easily obeying, conforming. It was so easy to invoke him to do anything. As he entered his trapped space, he began to breathe sharply, as if gasping for air. 

Before the woman could take one last look at the man whom they called her husband, the door shut, and they went across the narrow hallway again. Immediately, another door opened. The woman guessed that this was hers, as they would probably have her placed near her spouse, but as she began to step forward, a guard held her back. Another man was pushed forward, thickset and bulky. His weight was already diminishing though. He looked blankly back at the guards, with vacant eyes, and then entered his cell slowly and casually. He sat on his steel bed and then turned his eyes to the moon in his window.

She alone remained now. The last one. She was led forward, and she found it harder than ever to clasp onto her mind as the efforts of the guards were now focused upon her only. She made pained struggles to keep her composure, to maintain her contemptuous eyes, and though she was able to do so, the burden of the air was smothering her with increased pressure. She walked swiftly passed only one cell as the guards hovered. There were words of desperation coming from the cell, and as the she paused slightly to listen, she could catch utterances of names. The woman's lips began to curl, for she recognized the names, and she knew who was in that room. He wasn't even supposed to be here. The two of them were related by blood, after all. But only by blood. Nothing more.

They finally reached the end of the corridor, and stopped at the very last cell. At this the woman's head was higher than ever, and she looked condescendingly at her jailers. An odd sound was their response, a low resonance that seemed to be a laugh. The woman looked sourly upon their reply. It was she who was truly laughing, inwardly of course. These creatures could not touch her, for her mind was already as black as their velvet cloaks. The less she resisted their energies, the more she seemed to relax. She was fully at ease now, and she walked into her chamber triumphantly. As the doors shut with a snap, and as a rat ran away from her feet, she sat down on her bed, as the thickset man had done. She stood quietly after a few passing minutes had given her sufficient time to take in her monochromatic home. She peered out of the iron bars into the hardened North Sea. Into the silver orb that commanded its tides. Into the stars that foretold destiny.

Thus began her reign. 


End file.
